I'm in a mood today. A terrible, face melting, punch in the head inducing mood. I went to bed tense last night and woke up with my entire body rebelling. The area between my shoulders and the small of my back insist on spasming every five minutes. Hey, guess what back of the body area-- I didn't forget that you existed. So chill the fuck out with all this spasming business and let me be. Live and let live, right?
Aside from feeling like someone sat on me all night, I'm trying to cheer myself up. It's not really working. I think it's cause I don't really want to be cheered up. I want to be angry today because I'm just that filled with rage. Karina angry, Karina smash!
So, in the spirit of being a bitch, I am officially saying that today can eat it. That's right, I declare this entire Wednesday a complete and total waste of time and effort. Eff Wednesday, in other words.
Tuesdays? I'll take it.
Thursdays? Hell yeah.
Wednesdays? Wednesdays need to roll themselves in a carpet, walk itself out to the nearest dumpster, pour a bowl of day old lo-mein on top of itself and wait to be taken to a landfill where it truly belongs. Better yet, Wednesdays can stroll on down to Uncle Tony's Footlocker, invest in a pair of nice, comfy cement shoes, walk itself down the most remote fishing harbor, take a leap in and get to know a couple of great whites. Mafia deaths are only fitting for snake in the grass Wednesdays. You think you can rely on this unassuming day of the week? You are mistaken. Wednesday is the day your car will run out of gas. It's the day you'll realize you owe money all over town. Hell, Wednesdays will sleep with your wife if you let them. They're the biggest dick of all the weekdays, besting even that dingleberry wiener Monday.
Worst of all, Wednesday blog posts are totally irrelevant.
"I thought I was coming here to read about something entertaining," you thought.
Well, guess what? It's Wednesday, and Wednesdays are assholes.
Showing posts with label I Hate My Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I Hate My Life. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Monday, November 24, 2008
This immune system isn't big enough for the both of us
This is a picture of a healthy, well-functioning cell (the yellow guy) eating and beating the shit out of some anthrax (that poor orange bastard):
This is what your immune system should do. It should attack disease and sickness like an old west outlaw. My immune system should be like the rough and grizzled sheriff that everyone is afraid of. And disease should be like the new, headstrong but foolish outlaw. Sure, Disease may have claimed the cells of helpless immune systems a couple towns away, but he's too silly to realize this was one immune system he should have left alone. This is one immune system that's tired of running from fugitive deases and renegade illnesses. This is one immune system that's not afraid to fight back.
But, seeing as I'm sick for what is literally the tenth time this year, I imagine my immune system is a little more like this:
Really, immune system? You were fooled by a fake glasses/mustace combo AGAIN? I'm going to die by contracting the common household variety cold. And at my funeral people will be like, "Wait how'd she die again? Wasn't it something cool like a zombie bite or falling 200 feet from a cliff face or being smushed to death by a monster truck?" And my loved ones will have to respond, "No. She caught a cold one too many times." There will be shame in their voices and shame upon my family. You mark my words.
This is what your immune system should do. It should attack disease and sickness like an old west outlaw. My immune system should be like the rough and grizzled sheriff that everyone is afraid of. And disease should be like the new, headstrong but foolish outlaw. Sure, Disease may have claimed the cells of helpless immune systems a couple towns away, but he's too silly to realize this was one immune system he should have left alone. This is one immune system that's tired of running from fugitive deases and renegade illnesses. This is one immune system that's not afraid to fight back.
But, seeing as I'm sick for what is literally the tenth time this year, I imagine my immune system is a little more like this:
Really, immune system? You were fooled by a fake glasses/mustace combo AGAIN? I'm going to die by contracting the common household variety cold. And at my funeral people will be like, "Wait how'd she die again? Wasn't it something cool like a zombie bite or falling 200 feet from a cliff face or being smushed to death by a monster truck?" And my loved ones will have to respond, "No. She caught a cold one too many times." There will be shame in their voices and shame upon my family. You mark my words.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Feel Sorry For Me Like I Feel Sorry For Me
Guess what the fuck is up? Give you a hint: *my estrogen levels* Being a chick sucks sometimes. I've had a serious case of the fugs lately. I feel disgusting and am pretty sure I still look like Godzilla. So today, I decided to do some retail therapy.
Nothin' cures the blues like spending some greens.
Except, oh right, my wallet is empty. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. I gathered all my clothes that don't fit anymore or I don't wear anymore and decided that instead of donating them to charity, I was going to be selfish and sell them so I could get a little charity. It's a win-win situation, for me at least.
So I packed my shit up, stuffed it in a trash bag and went to the phenomenon that is Twice is Nice. Twice is Nice has a serious arrogance complex. It's above a Savers but definitely below a Buffalo Exchange. I'm sorry, you want me to pay how much for a pair of Kathie Lee Gifford jeans? But being poor and in desperate need of new jeans (but not desperate enough to buy anything from the she-devil known as Ms. Giffords), I sucked it up and went in.
Now, this may be icky, but everyone knows that shopping when your, uh, estrogen levels are off the fucking chain and you've gained five pounds in water weight is probably a bad idea. But time of the month be damned, I was going to try on some jeans. Big mistake.
Nothing fit. Nothing. Every pair of jeans in my size were tight in the waist or loose in the leg, or squeezed my leg to the point where I lost circulation or gave me a motherfucking muffin top. My dressing room was like a war zone. It was like I was young, fresh faced America and the British were coming back after all these years to claim my thighs in the name of the Queen. As if the Queen doesn't have enough stuff, the greedy bitch.
There were one pair of jeans though. Dark wash, boot cut and didn't make my ass look like it was two watermelons shoved in denim.
Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.
So I look at the tag to see how much they are and what the brand is and find something terrible. They were Daisy Fuentes brand. DAISY. MOTHER. FUCKING. FUENTES.
Needless to say, I stripped out of those jeans like someone was gonna pay me money, threw them on the ground, stomped on them, collected my $50 in trade and bolted. Daisy Fuentes jeans deserve worse. So do my ovaries.
Nothin' cures the blues like spending some greens.
Except, oh right, my wallet is empty. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. I gathered all my clothes that don't fit anymore or I don't wear anymore and decided that instead of donating them to charity, I was going to be selfish and sell them so I could get a little charity. It's a win-win situation, for me at least.
So I packed my shit up, stuffed it in a trash bag and went to the phenomenon that is Twice is Nice. Twice is Nice has a serious arrogance complex. It's above a Savers but definitely below a Buffalo Exchange. I'm sorry, you want me to pay how much for a pair of Kathie Lee Gifford jeans? But being poor and in desperate need of new jeans (but not desperate enough to buy anything from the she-devil known as Ms. Giffords), I sucked it up and went in.
Now, this may be icky, but everyone knows that shopping when your, uh, estrogen levels are off the fucking chain and you've gained five pounds in water weight is probably a bad idea. But time of the month be damned, I was going to try on some jeans. Big mistake.
Nothing fit. Nothing. Every pair of jeans in my size were tight in the waist or loose in the leg, or squeezed my leg to the point where I lost circulation or gave me a motherfucking muffin top. My dressing room was like a war zone. It was like I was young, fresh faced America and the British were coming back after all these years to claim my thighs in the name of the Queen. As if the Queen doesn't have enough stuff, the greedy bitch.
There were one pair of jeans though. Dark wash, boot cut and didn't make my ass look like it was two watermelons shoved in denim.
Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.
So I look at the tag to see how much they are and what the brand is and find something terrible. They were Daisy Fuentes brand. DAISY. MOTHER. FUCKING. FUENTES.
Needless to say, I stripped out of those jeans like someone was gonna pay me money, threw them on the ground, stomped on them, collected my $50 in trade and bolted. Daisy Fuentes jeans deserve worse. So do my ovaries.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Backup Plan
Today I feel like this:
Which sucks for two reasons. The first of which being that feeling like I resemble a 50 foot tall dinosaur doesn't quite give me the self-esteem boost I'm looking for. The second reason being that if I were going to be any monster, I want to be a zombie. That's right. I want to be a rotted, green, eyeball missing, people eating zombie.
I'd make a good zombie because it'd be the easiest profession* ever. Their only goal in life, er, un-life, is to eat. Granted, what they eat is human flesh, but that's just a small price to pay to be a member of the everlasting un-dead party. All my worries about school, work, social standing and self-esteem would be gone because I'd be dead and wouldn't care. The only thing Zombie Karina would care about is eating and trying not to trip over my decomposing peers. My estimation of what a day would be like in the life of a zombie would go a little something like this:
7 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
8 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
9 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
10 a.m. -Wander around looking for food.
11 a.m.-3 p.m. - Groan.
4 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
5 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
6 p.m. - Stare at something off in the distance; wonder to myself if it's food.
I think you get the idea. If my plans to be a professional, well educated and well adjusted adult doesn't work out, I plan on becoming a zombie. So if in the distant future you see me wandering around, dead with half my arm missing, you'll know that behind my cold, lifeless eyes I'm smiling. But, uh, you probably don't want to get too close.
*This is of course assuming that being a zombie is on scale with having a full time job. You would have to have qualifications like, "Can eat up to 10 pounds of brain" and "Has 2+ years experience in being un-dead" and "willing to work holidays, weekends and dark, foggy nights".
Which sucks for two reasons. The first of which being that feeling like I resemble a 50 foot tall dinosaur doesn't quite give me the self-esteem boost I'm looking for. The second reason being that if I were going to be any monster, I want to be a zombie. That's right. I want to be a rotted, green, eyeball missing, people eating zombie.
I'd make a good zombie because it'd be the easiest profession* ever. Their only goal in life, er, un-life, is to eat. Granted, what they eat is human flesh, but that's just a small price to pay to be a member of the everlasting un-dead party. All my worries about school, work, social standing and self-esteem would be gone because I'd be dead and wouldn't care. The only thing Zombie Karina would care about is eating and trying not to trip over my decomposing peers. My estimation of what a day would be like in the life of a zombie would go a little something like this:
7 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
8 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
9 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
10 a.m. -Wander around looking for food.
11 a.m.-3 p.m. - Groan.
4 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
5 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
6 p.m. - Stare at something off in the distance; wonder to myself if it's food.
I think you get the idea. If my plans to be a professional, well educated and well adjusted adult doesn't work out, I plan on becoming a zombie. So if in the distant future you see me wandering around, dead with half my arm missing, you'll know that behind my cold, lifeless eyes I'm smiling. But, uh, you probably don't want to get too close.
*This is of course assuming that being a zombie is on scale with having a full time job. You would have to have qualifications like, "Can eat up to 10 pounds of brain" and "Has 2+ years experience in being un-dead" and "willing to work holidays, weekends and dark, foggy nights".
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